My Little Dove
by LillieGrey
Summary: A collection of Dragon Queen drabbles and one-shots. The rating may change with later chapters.
1. Mistakes

_This is a mistake. This is a mistake. This is a mistake._

It funnels through her head like a mantra, as she stands frozen under Maleficent's gaze. She circles her like a predator eying its prey; like a dragon marking its hoard.

A single finger scrapes across her arm, delicate and teasing, rising higher and higher, across her shoulder, along the back of her neck, goosebumps puckering her skin as she fights to suppress the shudder that ripples through her body.

"You could be mine," whispered against her ear, hot breath tickling her skin as a tendril of smoke billows and curls into the air, blurring her vision, the world fogging and softening in focus as it fills her sight.

Warm lips tickle against her, the lightest brush of a caress, before pressing firmly to her pulse point. Sharp teeth sinking into delicate flesh, pulling and sucking, drawing a moan unbidden from her throat.

"That's it, let go for me," and _oh_ how she wants to. She wants to sink into this moment, lose herself completely to this woman she in enthralled by, let the darkness pull her under and wrap her in its spell, pulled along by roaming hands and piercing blue eyes.

"I can teach you to fly Regina," a husky promise spoken between lingering kisses against the column of her neck, and she's almost certain she means a flight entirely different from the kind involving rushing winds, shining scales, and powerful wings.

 _This is a mistake._

But it's a mistake she's all too willing to make as she turns and captures Maleficent's lips between her own, the taste of fire coating her tongue and setting her ablaze.

 _Mine_ , echoing through the pain.


	2. Meetings

She smells her long before she sees her, the familiar fragrance of vanilla and apples floating through the castle halls announcing her arrival. Normally it brings a smile to her face, her little dove spontaneously appearing in a puff of smoke, eyes eager and tinted with mischief, but this time something is wrong. Pulling another breath in, she savors the sweetness for a moment, before pushing past it, focusing on the nuance, the strange odor tainting the pure essence of _Regina_ , and her eyes widen in alarm.

There's a particular scent to death, a cloying sweetness laced with decay that lingers and clings; she'd know it anywhere. For a terrifying moment she thinks it's coming from her, the scent marking and claiming her, threatening to take her away; panic rises, churning in her gut as she flies through the hallways, smoke curling from her nostrils in deep panting billows in her haste to see for herself what she already fears. She finds her by the fireplace, back stiff and straight, shrouded in layers black leather and corsetry, but there are no wounds in sight; the offensive odor is merely painted in her skin. She reeks of it, death, dripping from her fingers like unwanted perfume.

That explains it, her first kill. That is why she is here.

"It's done." The words sound foreign coming from her mouth, the pitch too low and the delivery too smooth.

Later she will remember this day, the day _her_ Regina ceased to exist. The tentative girl full of fire and hope disappeared, snuffed out by the consuming tide of darkness and replaced with polished lacquered, tight corsets, and wine painted lips. They had many firsts together, but this one burns in her memory, the first time she met the Evil Queen.


	3. Empty Goblets

She arrives in a swirl of purple smoke, staggering lightly in an attempt to regain her footing; she's only just learned how to use the transport spell and she's still not used to the unpleasant lurch. Her eyes are wide and afraid, searching the room desperately until they find what they are looking for in the face of soft blue eyes and wild blond hair; only then does she start to breathe.

"Regina?" The older woman calls, startled by the sudden intrusion. "What happened? Are you alright?"

"He…he…" She stutters, limbs shaking and breath coming in bursts. Maleficent takes a step in, slowly, so she won't startle her young friend, until she's close enough to properly look her over.

Harsh purple bruises mottle her skin, angry hand prints that circle her wrists and darken her left cheek. Her dress is ripped, one sleeve severed from the seams at the shoulder and dangling by threads, the hem hanging in tattered strips. The sight has her anger rising, the dragon clawing at the back of her mind to be released and destroy whoever has dared to mark _her_ hoard, her friend, but now is not the time.

"Shhh, you're safe here," she coos, lightly wrapping an arm around the young woman, loosening her hold when she flinches at the contact, before guiding her into the room with gentle hands and whispered reassurances.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have intruded," she apologises, eyes intently staring at the floor.

"None of that. You are always welcome here," she promises, one finger turning her chin so they can make eye contact, so she can be sure her words sink in completely. "But we are both entirely too sober for this conversation. Come here my little dove, let me pour you a drink." She deposits her lightly in a chair by the fire, tucking a blanket around her legs. There's a far away look in her eyes that's unsettling, stricken and glazed, completely devoid of the usual spark she's come to love. She needs something to pull her back, something soothing and warm to bring the color back to her face, the light behind her eyes.

With a flick of her wrist two goblets appear, steam rising lazily away from the liquid inside. Regina takes one cup blindly, hands wrapping around the slowly heating metal, sighing as warmth slowly bleeds back into her skin.

This isn't the first night they've spent like this, and it won't be their last. For now they will sit in the silence, the fire crackling before them, the weight of all the words left unsaid hanging in the air as they sip from their drinks; the warm buzz of alcohol filling their veins and dulling their minds until the pain seems to melt away. It's not much, but it's what they have, clasped hands, whispered sighs, empty goblets and someone to finally keep away the loneliness and the cold.


	4. A Singular Touch

It's a simple thing really, just the press of two fingers, a soft touch or a firm reminder; there's nothing extraordinary about it, but it _shifts_ something inside of her.

Touch has never been innocent–fingers have always grasped and pulled: straightening posture and sculpting hair, cinching corsets that choked the air from her lungs and molded her body with boning and hand-tightened laces. Skin has split and cracked under the sharp sting of ring-coated fingers and crackling purple magic, only to be soothed by sugar soft words and tender strokes of a hand for good, _corrected_ , behavior.

Any form of affection, any pinpoint of contact left singing on her skin, buzzing along her limbs and pumping through her blood always came with a price.

 _Daniel_. With his sky colored eyes and sun warmed skin. Daniel, with work-worn hands that held her so gently, rough against her smoothness, but supple and yielding in all the right places, as if his body was made for hers to melt into, every plane folding and sliding into place until there wasn't a scrap of air between them.

But, the secret sweetness of that touch came at a cost.

 _Snow_. With her bright sunshine smiles and her crocodile tears. Snow with her frilly pink dresses and her ribbon laced ringlets, her whole-body hugs and her eager, searching fingers that always wormed their way into weaving with hers. One seemingly innocent rescue, one bright, relieved embrace transformed into a terrible price.

The bitterness of ashes and dust, the coldness of his lips, lifeless beneath her own. The lancing, wounding pain that has eaten her from the inside out every day since.

There are consequences to touch.

But somehow this feels different. _Mal_ feels different.

Two fingers, just two fingers, that hold her chin, a gentle request for eye contact or a reminder to breathe. _The world is outside you. Come back to me my Little Dove._

Nothing is asked for, nothing demanded in return, just two points of contact.

It's become a habit almost, something she does when she starts a conversation, or when she says goodbye. She grasps her chin and holds her face, firmly, but oh so gently, within the cradle of her fingers and just stares. It's comforting, intimate; it grounds her, silencing the thoughts clouding her mind and churning through her blood, until she is lost in a sea of dragon blue eyes, and whisper soft breath dancing along her skin.

"I want to be sure that you're listening, that you can see I mean what I say. I do this," she sighs, fingers sliding into position, her index finger resting just below her chin, the pad of her thumb sweeping up to rest along the fullness of her lower lip, "so that you know I am not hiding from you, that you cannot hide from me."

For a while, that's enough, gentle touches and smoke-scented breath, but touch always has consequences.

She is fire and amber, possessive and consuming of everything that crosses her path, and like so many that came before, she gets swept along in the flames. She's seduced by the tenderness of attention, the beckoning call of darkness and revenge that fuels them both, sends blood rushing through their veins, desire coursing through their limbs until they collapse into each other, hungry lips and brazen fingers leaving marks on her skin and searing wounds in her soul.

And one day, the press of two fingers, the tethering hold on her chin is no longer enough, it's battered away with a dismissive sneer. Her _Little Dove_ is blackened and grey, fortified by leather and grace, hard edges and high heels, every ounce of the girl she once was is withered and gone. She saunters away, heels clacking across a battlefield of glass, the curse clasped between her fingers, the price of their dalliance paid in full at last.

Years later she recalls the feeling, the gossamer memory of fingers resting on her chin, of the comfort and connection brought from the contact. It's the only example she has of generous care, of love demonstrated and communicated through the simplicity of touch. Maybe that's why she uses it with her Little Prince.

She never wants Henry to have a day where he is unsure if he is loved, a day where he has to question the singular place he holds in her heart, the _everything_ he is in her world. So, she holds his chin, gently between two fingers, and she stares into the shimmering hazel of his eyes, so he knows that she is not hiding from him, the he need not hide from her.

Touch has always come at a price, the stinging pain of reprimand, the shattering loss of love, the burning acid of betrayal; she knows them well. Her Henry, her beloved Little Prince, has exacted a price all his own from the first moment she kissed his doughy cheeks, held his tiny fingers, grasped the perfect roundness of his chin; he has cost her all, he has consumed her heart and her soul, the dearest and most wonderful price of all.


	5. Height Differences

She's so small, her Little Dove, with her tightly pinned braids and ornate pastel frocks. She always seems larger than she is, the dim glow of hope and life sparking behind her eyes filling the room and making her spread and take up more space than her meager stature affords; but the creeping darkness of vengeance and arranged marriage has been steadily snuffing her out.

She's still there, the bright, hopeful girl she met so many months ago, if she grasps her chin, tilts it up so she can look into her eyes, she can still see the spark, the ember of the girl who brought her back to life shining in the amber depths.

But she's slowly shrinking away.

Days turn to weeks that fade into months that stretch into spans of time and gradually things begin to change. She arrives one day in a swirl of purple smoke, trussed and twisted in layers of glimmering black leather and shimmering organza, her beautiful hair pulled severely into a tight knot at the back of her head. She looks odd, like a child playing dress up, all dark colors and heavy makeup, a smearing of warpaint and jewels covering the fresh-faced beauty she's grown to love underneath.

Suddenly they no longer fit, she doesn't slide into their embrace the way she used to, her head doesn't notch into the crook of her neck, her chin doesn't rest in the curve of her nose as as she bends to kiss her forehead as she's done so many times before.

She's taller, sliver thin heels raising her height until she's almost at eye level. Their arms twist and necks turn at awkward angles as they try to wrap around one another the way they have in the past, but she's shifted out of place. And for all the presence she seems to have gained from her new found form, her Little Dove has shrunken away.

The light has left the honeyed glow of her eyes, replaced with cold earth and acrid decay. The gentleness of her spirit, the effervescent joy and hope she'd fallen for has cooled into an eery stillness.

She did this. She sucked the life out of the precious woman in front of her, corrupted her with her own obsessive need for vengeance and guided her beloved along the same path. She turned her into a monster, a mirroring shadow of herself reflected back in crimson lips and hollow eyes.

She guided her along, holding her hand and pulling her under, pushing her towards a manipulative magical imp who gave her the tools and the hate to grow into the imposing creature before her. But, for all the height she has gained, all the power and the stature, her Regina, her Little Dove has grown smaller and slipped away, until almost nothing remains.


End file.
